Free Form No.8

 

The loaded words

Serving solely to misguide,

A fantastic journey

Into dream and delusion—

 

The adventurous ride

Into painted meadows

And high-tech cities,

We fly like Scrooge—

 

So lucid, so bright,

The words do hint

At facts so rooted

In common ground—

 

But alas, behold,

The lurking daemon

Behind the garb

Of loosely fitting

Robes and lavish

Yet cheap polyester—

 

The elusive form

Speaking only in riddles

And haunting tales

Calling forth fancy views

Of transient charm—

The expanding girth

Of one so smart,

The rarefied potency

Incessantly infusing

Its molecular odour

Indiscriminately through—

 

What a terrible trick!

Yet who's to blame?

For afflicted is all

By this evasive cause—

Hands thrown up!

Sigh light in knowing

Ills perceived

Are just illusion—

 

For here we sit

In silent being,

Ravished not

By dismal scenes

Of fading fights

And startling news—

 

The parasitic leech

Is shaken off,

Falling hard

Does wriggle

In drying death

And dusty dissolution—

 

Until emerging from

The desert ground

One violet pulse

Of pulpy growth—

 

With this timeless act

Of effortless strength,

The greater field,

The unwavering friend,

Shows its face

In ceaseless presence—

 

The very bed

Of all delusion.

 

MS21